


am i the only one pretending (i did it to myself)

by rutaceae



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Good Older Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Whump, and by god he gets one, bringing back a previous tag, copious amounts of physical affection, extensive discussions of consent, is this my brand now, past emotional abuse, should amend that to terrible parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutaceae/pseuds/rutaceae
Summary: Tim doesn’t expect his latest civilian kidnapping to be any different from the rest, but when he remembers things best left buried in the past, things take a turn for the worse.Luckily, his family is here to help.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 80
Kudos: 736





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this sitting in my notes since July 2020, but I made myself promise to at least try to get this done in time for Whumptober. Well, it’s now 2021 and this has grown threefold from my initial word count expectations so… here we are. Vaguely inspired by something I saw on r/AITA a while back. I've mostly finished chapter two, so hopefully I can post it within the week. I'm also posting this at [checks time] 3AM, so let me know if you find any typos. Title is from Orla Gartland’s Pretending + Did It to Myself.
> 
> Sorry Tim.

Tim was in a good mood, despite the long day in the office. He’d promised Alfred he’d drop by the Manor for dinner, and the last meeting of the day had let out early enough he had time to detour by a local coffee shop to treat himself to a hot drink. It was a pleasant walk to the little shop; the Gotham skies were slightly brighter than usual, and a gentle fall breeze wafted through the late-October air. It didn’t take long to get his coffee, and soon Tim was making his way back to Wayne Tower and his car.

He was so focused on the heat of the coffee burning into his palms that he didn’t notice the shady figure lurking in an alleyway waiting for his approach. A heavy arm grabbed Tim from behind, wrapping around his torso and pinning his arms to his sides. Hot coffee splashed over Tim’s shoes and the pavement, and before Tim could even yell in anger an acrid-smelling cloth was slapped over his nose and mouth. The sensation of being hefted onto someone’s shoulder and hauled down the alleyway was the last thing he remembered.

Tim woke up some time later in the back of what was probably a van, his wrists held together with a zip tie and crushed painfully behind his back. They’d thrown a burlap sack over his head, and the loose fibres threatened to make him sneeze. The driver wasn’t bothering to be careful either, the van thumping into pothole after pothole. Tim groaned as his head bounced off the floor of the van, the burlap sack scratching painfully into his throbbing temple. He wiggled slightly, testing the give of his restraints, and received a kick in the back for his efforts.

There was no indication of how long Tim had been out, and he could only guess at how many people were in the van and where they were taking him. He was missing the weight of his cell phone and wallet, and God knows what the goons had done with his messenger bag. Tim had no choice but to lay silent, and wait until they arrived at their destination.

After around ten minutes the vehicle lurched to a stop, and Tim was pulled out of the van with a rough grip on his upper arm. He stumbled, loafers sliding over loose gravel.

The most he could see through the sack was the occasional colour and changing light, but the transition from gravel to rough concrete and the creak of a metal gate coupled with the stench of the not-so-distant harbour was enough to tell Tim he was being brought to one of Gotham’s many abandoned warehouses.

Tim had spent many, many hours of his relatively short life lurking in what felt like every dilapidated warehouse Gotham had to offer, and they each had the same eerie bad vibe in common. This one was no different.

It reminded him of his bet with Jason about being able to guess which warehouse district he was in based solely off the level of fish and dust in the air, and Tim had to stop himself from chuckling out loud. He’d bet five bucks he was on West Side, this time.

The goon escorting him didn’t seem to be pleased with the aborted huff Tim let out, judging by the grip on his arm doubling in pressure and the rough shake that made his teeth clack together.

Tim nearly tripped over a slight incline, and took note of the decreasing light and increased stuffiness of the air. They must have brought him inside the warehouse proper. Tim’s suspicions were confirmed when a door was pulled shut behind him, and the shuffle of footsteps ahead of him meant Tim was accompanied by at least three goons. More manpower never meant anything good when it came to kidnappings, so Tim crossed his fingers and hoped the thugs were of the more incompetent sort.

Tim was led deeper into the warehouse, and then made to wait as the thugs bustled about before him. Tim felt the air shift as something moved in front of him, with the sound of a dull scrape against concrete. Tim was pushed forward into the space, all the ambient light he could see through the sack disappearing in an instant as the door closed behind him.

He was manhandled into a chair about six feet into the room, likely bolted to the floor as it didn’t even budge when Tim fell into it. One of the goons grabbed his wrists, slipping more zip ties over his wrists and cinching them closed, securing him to the chair. He heard the goons step back, and breathed an internal sigh of relief as they finally pulled the coarse sack from his head. A stifled click sounded at the same time, and Tim blinked to clear his eyes from the sudden blinding light that greeted him.

He was in a windowless concrete room, and the air was slightly stale as though it had only been recently cleaned. The ceiling lighting had been gutted, bare wires dangling, and spotlights had been set up to compensate. They surrounded his chair, letting the goons blend into the monochrome-grey of the room’s shadows. Smears of dust were barely visible in the far reaches of the small room, and Tim could see a grungy mattress set in the corner alongside a bucket. There looked to be only one door directly opposite him, a large, steel and concrete contraption with a wheel set in its centre. He counted four men all up, two standing near the door and others behind him but still visible in his peripheral vision.

So, he seemed to be in what was possibly an old safe room in what was _definitely_ an abandoned warehouse. As cliché as you could get.

None of the goons had been willing to speak so far, and coupled with their all-black combat gear and ski masks it didn’t paint a pretty picture. There weren’t many groups Tim knew of outside the regular Rogues that had a personal vendetta against Tim—Red Robin, rather—and even less that would capitulate on dramatics for scare factor. Based solely off the fact he was grabbed straight after work, Tim guessed this was business related; a well-funded ransom attempt to siphon money from Wayne Enterprises, rather than something more sinister.

He could only hope.

But, now that he was settled, it was time to play the part. Tim let tears well up in his eyes and turned his gaze to the man on his left.

“Please,” he said imploringly, “I don’t know what you want from me but if you let me go—”

Before Tim had a chance to finish the man hit him with a solid right hook. Tim’s head snapped to the side with the force of the punch, and he felt a sharp sting as his teeth cut into his cheek. Blood pooled in his mouth and Tim coughed, the coppery tang dribbling over his lip and down his chin.

He tilted mostly upright, wobbling slightly, shoulders hitching as fake tears left his eyes.

“I, I’m sorry, if you just—”

The same man hit him again, this time splitting his lip. Tim spat out blood and winced as the movement tugged at the raw edges of his lip. The thug was still hovering, so Tim quieted with a false whimper and let his head hand down. It wasn’t worth pushing his luck and inciting further violence just yet, especially if they were happy to rough him up before they even told him why he was here.

Tim sniffled pathetically to complete the illusion and shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. He froze as the rest of the men turned towards him at the movement. At least half of them had a hand twitch towards their weapons, and though they hadn’t yet proven to be as trigger-happy as your typical Gotham con, it wasn’t worth antagonising a room full of goons packing considerable heat just yet. They’d already shown they were willing to hurt him to get what they wanted, and Tim still had _no_ clue who they were. This was definitely not boding well for him so far; he needed to get more info, and fast.

After a moment one of the lackeys by the door lifted a hand to his ear, then gave a nod to the man on the other side. The man nodded in return, and together the thugs turned and pulled open the door. Tim could see through to a large, empty warehouse, the greyish-purple tones of twilight faint through a distant window. Before Tim could attempt to orient himself further a final man strode into the small room, though unlike the others, he wasn’t wearing a mask.

He was blonde, a plain white man with a forgettable face, but something about his blank gaze made Tim want to shrink back into his skin. A flick of his wrist had the goons pulling the heavy door shut with a dull thud, trapping them all inside. Great, so their leader was finally showing his face. _Ha_.

The man stopped a short distance before Tim. Up close he looked even more unnerving; the bleached pallor of his skin stood in stark contrast to the black of his clothes, leeching any hint of warmth from his expression. His eyes seemed to bore right through Tim, and his cracked lips lifted in a mirthless grin.

 _Now or never_ , thought Tim, and turned up scared-hurting-rich-kid to the max.

“I— _please_ , I promise you’ll get whatever ransom you want, don’t hit me again, just let me call Bruce and we can figure something out,” he pleaded.

“Fer Chrissakes, kid, cut the shit, we know you’ve been through this before,” snapped one of the goons, and Tim’s blood froze.

_He remembered that voice._

In an instant Tim’s vision fizzled out and went grey around the edges, shock hitting him like he’d been dunked in a tub of thirty-degree ice water. One moment he was strapped to a chair in a harshly lit concrete room and then—

_— he was back in the foyer of Drake mansion, with Jack and Janet Drake standing before him, their eyes leadened with anger and disappointment._

_“Honestly, Tim, what did you expect?_

_“You should have known better.”_

Tim’s stomach dropped what felt like thirty storeys. His lungs seized, and he blinked frantically to clear the memory and pull himself back to the present, near gasping as he tried to wrench his focus back into place.

Tim was still struggling to concentrate on anything other than his heart pounding in his chest, but he managed to catch the end of one of his kidnapper’s hissed conversation.

“…you’ll mess it up, Doug,” the thug said.

The last man who’d walked in sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It’s pointless keeping up the charade now, then, isn’t it,” said the man, with an exaggerated moue.

“Sorry, Boss,” grunted the goon who must have been Doug in apology.

Each newly remembered voice struck Tim like a dart thrown with pinpoint accuracy, and though he was no stranger to encountering thugs who’d previously whaled on him in the streets, these voices in particular were dredging up memories that left Tim unmoored.

 _There was no way this could be happening_.

The boss crouched down before Tim, grinning at his heightened panic.

“Things aren’t going to go the same way as last time, Timothy. I’m sure you can already tell,” he said with a nod towards the dried blood on Tim’s chin and the makings of a painful bruise. “You better hope your dad gets back to us quickly or you’ll end up with a lot worse than a bloody lip.”

He gave Tim one last considering look, smirking at Tim’s silence before he rose from his crouch. He pulled a brick of a phone from his pocket and snapped a photo of Tim in the chair, the flash momentarily blinding him and—

— _he was blinking glowing spots and tears from his eyes, salt spilling down his cheeks, and Tim didn’t understand why he was here and what the men were_ **_saying_ **—

Tim was too focused on trying to slow his breathing to make out what the man said to his guards before the door closed with a solid thump.

Tim’s mind felt fractured, memories fraying at the edges, his senses swirling together in a confusing maelstrom of real and remembered. The ghosts of his parents felt solid and implacable, as though any minute now they would step out from the shadows to dismiss him.

An all-encompassing sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to return to the mansion and face Jack and Janet for a second time, and admit to himself what he’d purposefully forgotten.

Tim let out a shuddering exhale, and mentally shook himself. He was seventeen, he was Red Robin, and his parents were dead. He was an _adult_. Mostly. Sure, he was trapped in a small room with a collection of goons who reminded him of one of the worst moments of his life, but he was _fine_. They’d only hurt him slightly, and they needed him alive to extract any amount of money from Bruce Wayne.

Not only that, but Tim had promised Alfred he’d make it to dinner and that he’d text when he was on his way, so Alfred at least _must_ have realised something was up. Bruce would have tracked his cell phone when Tim didn’t answer and realised something was wrong, and put someone on the case.

One of his guards laughed, and Tim flinched. The sound intermingled with the memory of his mother scoffing and sent doubt trickling down his spine. Tim did his best to ignore it and forced the fear down; the Bats were definitely coming, they wouldn’t leave him.

His family was coming.

They _were._

* * *

Half an hour later, Tim was still sitting in the same chair. The thugs had set up camp in a corner of the room, chattering amongst themselves at a murmur with the occasional cruel grin thrown in Tim’s direction. He’d managed to get a handle on most of the intrusive memories popping into his head, compartmentalising them as best he could; though even if Tim could suppress the thoughts mentally, the rest of him didn’t seem to be getting the memo.

Tim found himself flinching at the most innocuous things, stray memories piling up at the locked doors of Tim’s mind and leaking through slowly, painfully, despite his renewed effort to block them out.

A flash of red from a pack of cards, and—

_— the same colour of his mother’s lipstick, her mouth downturned and taut with barely restrained anger —_

Tim suppressed a shudder, willed away the uptick of his pulse. He had to focus on something else, something concrete, like the zip tie around his wrists. It hadn’t slipped once since he awoke, still pulled taut over the material of his suit jacket. Could he use the extra length as a shiv, or snap it open on the chair?

Across the room, a thug’s boot scuffed across the dusty concrete floor. The movement caught a spotlight and gleamed momentarily—

 _— just like Tim’s father’s polished Italian loafer turning towards the front door, the last thing Tim saw before the door shut and they_ **_left_ ** _—_

No, _no_ , he couldn’t think about that, he _couldn’t_ , he had to focus on his wrists, the tape. He had to stop trembling. Shaking hands were a weakness, something to be exploited, and Tim couldn’t let that happen again, couldn’t let himself be tricked into believing that—

Tim’s eyes blurred. This wasn’t like last time—Tim wasn’t eleven anymore, and the Drake mansion was no longer home, the manor was. Tim just had to wait a little longer, keep himself together for a short while more, and he’d be able to go home. Bruce was coming.

It would be fine.

It _would_.

Tim was so focused on attempting to calm himself down that he didn’t notice the approach of one of the goons until the man was only a few feet away. Tim cursed himself for not paying attention, schooling his face to be as neutral as possible. He knew his rabbiting pulse would betray his fear to the mercs in an instant, like a shark scenting blood; the thumping beat of his heart in his ear drums sounded loud enough to startle a bat a city over, jumping with each twitch of a muscle from the man before him.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” said Tim quietly, before the thug could speak. “Wayne Enterprises has a program for ex-cons, to get them back into the workforce. If you let me go now, Bruce might not even press charges.”

Fat chance of that. Bruce never took kindly to the kidnapping of any of his charges, whether they were in costume or not.

The man laughed incredulously. “You think we’d want your daddy to pay us to sit in an office all day? We do this ‘cause we’re _good_ at it, kid.” A vindictive smirk spread beneath his ski mask. “You ever wonder why your parents never sent the cops after us?”

Tim’s face crumpled, his carefully maintained composure fracturing into countless pieces. He could barely hear the jeers of the goons, entirely consumed with the sick bloom of utter dread that spilled through every inch of him and enveloped him head to toe.

Tim never _needed_ to wonder why his parents never sent for the police. Why his ransom was paid so quickly. Why he was returned before the night even turned truly dark.

Tim instinctively recoiled from that line of thought, trying to force it back into the deep recesses of his mind like he’d been doing for years. But the black combat gear still visible in his field of vision and every word spoken by the thugs before him were inescapable, serving as a constant reminder keeping his memories front and centre.

Tim brought his head down, drove the truth he didn’t want to admit back as far as he could, and tried to focus on breathing through the heavy pall of horror pooling in his lungs.

At that moment, the door was pulled open again, and Tim jerked upright at the sound of footsteps. The leader was back, a burner phone clutched in his hand.

“Fortunately for you, Timothy, someone back at home cares for you very much,” he said, voice sweet and mocking. He lifted the phone to his ear.

“Now, Wayne, I want you to speak very carefully. We don’t want anything else to happen to Timothy now, do we?”

The man stepped closer, circled Tim’s chair and stood menacingly behind him, and held the phone up near Tim’s ear.

Bruce’s voice crackled into the room, small and tinny. “— _is Tim? I’ll get you whatever you want, just let me speak to my_ **_son_**.”

Tim pulled on his restraints, near dizzy with momentary relief at the sound of Bruce’s voice.

“Bruce!” Tim called. He strained towards the phone, ignoring the painful twinge in his wrists. “Bruce, I’m okay, they haven’t— I’m okay,” he spoke directly into the receiver.

“ _Tim? Oh, thank God. Listen, someone is on the way, stay calm and do what they say_ —”

One of the men twisted a hand into Tim’s hair and yanked, forcing his head back at a painful angle. Tim let out a yelp.

“No, no, no, Mr. Wayne, that won’t do,” the man sang. He leant in close, breath ghosting on Tim’s cheek and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He reached out with the hand not holding the phone and wrapping it around Tim’s neck. “Remember what we promised?”

“ _I told you, I’ll get you your money, as long as you don’t hurt Tim_.”

The man clucked into the phone, fingers tightening around Tim’s neck. “That isn’t how this works.”

“Bruce,” wheezed Tim. He knew Bruce was playing up the role of a frightened father, knew he wasn’t purposefully antagonising the boss into hurting Tim, knew he’d only be speaking like that on a ransom call if he was surrounded by police other than Gordon he had to fool—but Bruce couldn’t know the leader had a hand around Tim’s neck.

“Shut _up_ ,” the man growled, and squeezed.

Without the reinforced neck of his Red Robin costume, Tim’s windpipe crumpled under the pressure like a cardboard tube. Tim choked on a reflexive inhale, failing to drag in any breath. Tim fought his restraints, trying to wrench himself free, but the man’s grip was simply too strong. He felt his fight rapidly deplete with each second that passed. The world closed in on him, blackening at the edges, and Tim thrashed, feet scrabbling for purchase against the dusty floor. He felt the grate of cartilage in his neck, lungs burning with the effort as his body frantically tried to heave in any possible molecule of oxygen.

The boss eventually let go, moments before Tim thought he may black out. He keeled over, gulping in as much air as he could through his abused throat.

“Y’see, we could’ve avoided that, but you’ve been too cocky, Mr. Wayne,” said the leader, voice light and dangerous.

He hauled Tim up by the back of his collar. Tim gagged, the material cutting in to the fresh bruises on his neck.

A flick sounded, and suddenly one of the goons to Tim’s left was holding a knife to his cheek. Tim gasped at the feel of cold steel on his burning skin, cringing away instinctively as it caressed his cheekbone.

The leader leant in close. He curled his hand over Tim’s shoulder, running circles over the bony ridge with his thumb. It made Tim’s insides churn and a fresh prickle of sweat erupt on his skin. Tim’s hands shook in their restraints.

“Your son is in a very precarious position, Wayne,” said the man, voice low and dangerous. “He’s at our mercy, and _that_ depends on your willingness to lighten your pockets. I’m a very capricious man, you see, and each misstep of yours results in one more mark on your boy, here.” At that he dug his thumb into Tim’s shoulder, _hard_. Tim let out a pained squeak.

The knife shifted, the thug edging it at the corner of Tim’s mouth. It left a stinging depression on his lips with each panting breath he took.

The leader brought the burner around into Tim’s line of sight, close enough he could almost hear Bruce’s voice through the staticky buzzing in his ears.

“Listen closely,” murmured the man. “I’m giving you one final chance to talk to him. No hints, no business, one last word between you and dear old dad before he makes a decision. Understood?”

The goon holding the knife dug it into the meat of Tim’s lip, and his breath stuttered as a droplet of blood glided down his chin. Tim nodded.

“Good boy,” said the man with a brisk pat to Tim’s shoulder. He flinched away. The thug with the knife stepped back, and the leader brought the phone to Tim’s ear.

“ _Tim_ ,” said Bruce, pleading. “ _Tim, son, we’ll get you out of there, I promise, just hold on_.”

And—

And it wasn’t real, Tim knew he was putting it on, knew Bruce was exaggerating even if he _was_ worried about Tim—but he still felt a deep yearning pull on his heart at the sound of Bruce’s voice. He just wanted to go home.

“ _Dad_ ,” Tim sobbed, and before he could hear Bruce’s reply the man pulled the phone away, stepping back towards the door.

“You heard him,” he said. “Your son will be fine, for now. You have my details, Wayne. Wire the money in the next ten minutes if you want Timothy back in one piece.”

He ended the call with a press of a button, and exited the room with a flourish, the door closing behind him like a klaxon.

He left Tim in the chair, shaking, tears silently dripping from his eyes.

* * *

The man hadn’t been gone for long when the other goons left their positions, crowding Tim’s chair.

“How you enjoying your stay this time, buddy? All scared ‘cause you got pushed around a little?” asked one of the thugs, feigning concern.

“Naw, maybe he’s rememberin’ last time and how he was so scared he was gonna wet his pants,” snickered another goon.

Tim ignored them, gaze flicking up for a split second before he diverted his attention.

“Oi,” one of the men called, clicking his fingers in Tim’s face. “We’re talkin’ to you.”

Tim kept his eyes trained on the concrete floor.

“Boss said he was still negotiating with Wayne. Y’think he’ll take long? Getting tired of waiting for that rich idiot to make up his mind ‘bout how much his kid costs,” said the man as he kicked at Tim’s chair.

“There’s other ways to pass the time, you know,” snickered one of the thugs, elbowing his neighbour.

Tim did his best to let their words wash over him. He’d failed pretty miserably at staying calm and not getting lost in his memories so far, but being beaten up? He was used to that. Not as a civilian, but as a vigilante, certainly. Bruce had said someone was on the way, and he wouldn’t lie like that. Tim just needed to stick it out like he had so far, and he would be _fine_.

“What, wanna give him a few more bruises? I don’t think the boss would mind too much,” replied one of the thugs, voice thoughtful.

“Naw, I’m thinking something a little more… satisfying, you might say. The kid’s gotten prettier over the years, more than you usually get in our business. Might need some more hands-on punishment to keep him in line,” crooned one of the men.

Tim stopped breathing.

The man stepped closer, boots entering Tim’s frame of vision. “You’re older now, you couldn’t blame us for wanting a little fun before we return you to daddy dearest,” he leered, resting a hand on his belt.

Tim’s heart pulsed in his chest. Suddenly the mattress in the corner made a lot more sense.

One of the other lackeys let out a harsh snort. “C’mon, wait until Wayne’s gotten back to us, at least. If we play it right we could even get him to pay more than the ransom. Double, even.”

“Shut it, Doug, the boss said he hadn’t even sent the money yet. Maybe we should give him some incentive.”

The man stepped in closer, raising a hand to lightly brush against Tim’s chin. He jerked back, trying to get as far away as possible. The other thugs laughed at his distress, and even the thug who’d defended Tim earlier rolled his eyes at their antics rather than intervening.

Tim pressed back against the chair as hard as he could, but the bolts kept it locked into place. He couldn’t escape.

Tim choked on an involuntary whimper, focusing on the salt stinging his split lip to anchor himself in the present. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ let himself fall into further disarray, he had to hold on and wait and hope that his family would show up to rescue him soon.

Distantly, Tim could hear the men egging the thug on, and tried to ignore the hand sliding into his hair. His gut churned at the feel of the hand carding through his locks, and his eyes blurred.

“Stop,” Tim managed to stammer out, but it only seemed to encourage the man and his entourage, if the hand that slid back to his cheek and the sound of a belt buckle clicking was anything to go by.

Then Tim heard something over the blood rushing in his ears. It was faint, like the sound of sparklers on the Fourth of July, but Tim couldn’t tell where it was coming from. None of the goons seemed to have noticed it, including the man still groping at Tim’s cheek.

The sound came again. The concrete wall began to hiss and fizz, and within a few moments it had almost entirely crumbled away. A muted _bang_ sounded and the last of the concrete fell away, leaving a large hole in the foot-thick wall and a solid black view into the warehouse.

The mercs had frozen when the wall first began to crumble, but were quick to reach for their guns when the last of the dissolved concrete had settled.

The darkness beyond the wall shifted, revealing two pinpricks of glowing light.

“Hello, boys,” Red Hood purred. “Having some fun without me?”

The thugs yelled as they scrambled into action, but there was little they could do against the Hood; he instantly popped each of the men closest to Tim in the kneecaps, and they went down screaming. Tim flinched at the spurts of blood, keeping his head down as Hood grunted and fired at the remaining mercs. Despite the silencer, the gunshots were alarmingly loud thanks to the acoustics of the concrete safe room, leaving Tim wincing at the ringing in his ears.

A moment passed without any sound save for the pained groaning of the goons, and Tim lifted his head slowly to take in the scene. Hood had dragged the men into the far corner of the room and was tying them together back-to-back. Their wounds were leaking sluggishly, the floor speckled with blood, but there was no tell-tale sign of arterial spray. Tim let out a shaky sigh of relief.

Hood rose, apparently done with his task, and strode across the room to Tim’s side. He flicked out a knife and slashed the zip tie from Tim’s wrists. Tim brought his hands around to his front, hissing as he rubbed at his aching wrists. He kept his fists clenched as tight as possible, aware he was still trembling.

Hood dropped into a crouch before Tim, and gave a cursory glance over Tim’s injuries. He could feel Hood’s heavy gaze linger on his bruised throat and rubbed-raw wrists. Hood reached forward, and Tim had to fight to suppress a flinch at the movement. Hood froze, noticing the aborted movement. Tim opened his mouth to apologise, but no sound came out.

Hood’s shoulders went slack. He reached up, disengaging the locking mechanism of his helmet with a hiss. Jason’s face emerged, white streak pressed flat to his forehead. Jason straightened his hair with a quiet curse, then turned to look over Tim more closely.

Even through the domino, Tim could see the concern painted over Jason’s face.

Jason reached forward again, slower, this time, and took Tim’s chin in his hand. Almost painfully gently, he guided Tim’s head left then right, examining the forming bruises on his face and neck. He gave a tiny nod, seemingly satisfied they were surface level and could have been worse.

Jason removed his hand and rocked back onto his heels.

“Not hurt anywhere else?”

Tim shook his head.

“You sure are a magnet for trouble, aren’t ya kid,” said Jason.

Tim relaxed incrementally with each word Jason spoke. Even with the smoker’s rasp, his voice was a soothing comparison to the harsh mechanical grate of Red Hood’s voice modulator.

Suddenly, as if the rest of him had noticed that Jason was _safe_ , Tim felt the stress almost physically leave his body, and pitched forward over his knees. His breath puffed warm and humid onto his face, and his heart was jittery in his chest. His hands were shaking hard enough that it couldn’t be hidden with a clenched fist, and this time Jason seemed to have noticed.

Tim heard Jason report back to someone on comms, before a hand slid over his still-trembling fists and another pressed against his shoulder.

“C’mon, kid,” he sighed. “Let’s get you home.”

Tim nodded weakly, and let Jason lever him upright and guide him over to the hole in the concrete.

They’d almost made it out when Jason stopped abruptly by the still-moaning thugs.

“Kid. Did they hurt you,” asked Jason.

Tim was lost. He levelled Jason with a frown; hadn’t they already established that?

“You know what I’m asking,” growled Jason.

Tim’s eyes skittered across to the men collapsed on the floor. They looked half the size as before, huddled on the ground with tears and snot leaking from behind their ski masks. One of the men was sprawled backwards, propped up against a fellow thug, the gunshot wound in his shoulder weeping a thick drool of blood. His belt buckle was half undone, reflecting the light from the spotlights overhead.

Oh. So that’s what Jason meant.

Tim didn’t have the energy to explain the concept of “yeah, sort of, but it was mostly _threatened_ rather than _attempted_ , and it’s not like it’s anything _new_ ” to Jason, so instead he just shrugged.

In the wake of Tim’s non-answer, Jason made up his mind and stormed over to the goons. He loomed over the man in question, twirling his knife in a rhythmic spin. He murmured something, quiet enough Tim couldn’t hear, empty fist clenching when the man chuckled something in return.

Tim would have been worried Jason was going to kill him, if his brain hadn’t stopped processing emotions and was instead blasting the equivalent of a white noise soundtrack.

Instead of lunging with his knife or reaching for his gun, Jason lifted his foot and brought his boot down heavily on the man’s crotch. A sharp crack sounded as what must have been the man’s protective cup gave way beneath Jason’s steel-toed boot. The man let out a gurgling whine, writhing as Jason dug his heel in deeper, pinning the man in place. He let off after a moment before giving the thug another kick in the balls for good measure. The man twitched, letting out a high-pitched shriek before he devolved into wracking sobs.

Jason strode back over to Tim, leaving the man hunched over and weeping.

“Let’s go,” he grunted, steadying Tim’s elbow as he ushered him out of the small room into the wider warehouse.

The leader lay crumpled just before the heavy door, face down in a small pool of blood. The burner phone lay a short distance from his hand, as though he’d dropped it when he fell.

Tim looked away. “Is he—?”

“He isn’t dead,” Jason rasped, “none of them are.”

Tim let the matter drop, and followed Jason out to his bike. Jason kept a tight grip on his arm the entire way, as though he was worried Tim would vanish into mid-air the second he let go.

The bike was hidden under a half-broken awning, melding into the shadows. Jason wheeled the bike out then propped it up on its stand. He rifled through the saddlebags, pressing a spare helmet into Tim’s hands. Tim fumbled to put it on, the smooth material sliding under his sweaty hands.

Jason had already put his Red Hood helmet back on, and was waiting patiently for Tim to be ready. Jason straddled the bike, keeping it steady as Tim tried to get on as gracefully as he could with his jelly legs. He clutched at Jason’s middle, not sure whether his shaky hands would be enough to keep him on the bike going at any speed, but it seemed Jason had the same thought; he held both of Tim’s hands in place with one of his own, keeping them locked around his waist as he eased off onto the access road.

Tim pressed himself against Jason’s back, willing himself to focus on the warm leather of his jacket and not the countless unwanted thoughts streaming through his mind in a never-ending torrent. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and listened to the burn of rubber and rushing air.

* * *

It felt like no time at all before the bike was rumbling to a stop. Jason patted Tim’s clasped hands, and he groggily peeled himself off Jason’s back, mind still running at quarter speed.

He stumbled off the bike, and he must have managed to remove the helmet because the next thing he knew Tim was following Jason along the street like a lost duckling. He didn’t know where Jason was taking him, and didn’t think he could ask without the words getting jumbled up in his mouth. His phone was still lost, his wallet too, and there was no way the Red Hood could be seen dropping Tim off at the Manor.

A pang of terror sparked through Tim at the thought Jason was going to leave him at a police station, and that he’d need to tell them what happened and ask to call Alfred himself. He’d need to wait by himself, alone, and field their questions about his parents or guardian and endure their pity and—

Tim was reaching out to grab at Jason’s leather jacket before he could tell himself to stop. Jason twitched, and he must have been debating whether or not to throw Tim’s hand off because he froze long enough for Tim to regret every decision he’d made that night.

If anyone in the boarded-up apartments on the narrow street glanced out through the broken slats of their windows, they’d see a roughed-up Tim Wayne clinging to the Red Hood like a scared little kid, and that was more than enough to threaten the Hood’s hard-won reputation and hint at a connection between the Waynes and the Bats. Tim’s heart thumped, but he couldn’t bring himself to release his grip.

Despite all this, Jason didn’t throw off Tim’s hand, and instead just prodded him forward gently with a nudge at his shoulder, momentarily tucking Tim under his arm.

They kept moving along the darkened street, and the cooling air cut through Tim’s rumpled jacket. He kept his eyes down, letting the cracked asphalt blur through his unfocused eyes.

They’d been walking down a wide alley for a minute when in his peripheral vision, Tim saw flashing red and blue lights accompanied by the sound of radio crackling into the open air.

Tim looked up to see a small collection of police cars, their lights arching across the alley and reflecting off the oil slick staining the road. A handful of cops bustled about, some consulting their radios and others inspecting a map spread across the hood of one of the cars.

Tim came to a sudden stop, and was almost pulled off his feet when Jason continued forward, not noticing Tim’s hesitation.

They’d called the police?

They’d been _searching for him_?

Tim’s heart thumped with the beginnings of hope. Jason wouldn’t be caught dead within a block of the police, not even the Commissioner. There was no doubt this was their destination. Tim still felt half his age, clutching at his big brother’s jacket, but the memories warring in his mind faded the slightest at the knowledge that Bruce _hadn’t been lying_.

It didn’t mean Tim was ready for Jason to disappear back into the night without him.

“They’re not gonna maul you, kid,” said Jason, voice tinged with a hint of exasperation.

Tim wove his fingers tighter into Jason’s jacket, the smooth leather creaking.

Jason lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t hand you off to a dirty cop anyway. I made sure of it. These guys are clean as can be, as far as y’get in Gotham.”

Tim stayed silent.

Jason let out a muttered curse. “Look, I dunno why you’re so freaked out, and I know you’re not playing’ it up for Gotham’s so-called _finest_ , but we gotta go above board this time, a’ight? If it makes ya feel better I’ll be watchin’ you the whole time, at least until Bruce has you in his sights.”

“Bruce?” Tim whispered. “He’s here?”

“I— yeah, buddy, he’s here,” said Jason, perplexed.

Tim loosened his grip, and shuffled forward minutely.

“Thank Christ,” sighed Jason in relief.

Jason walked with Tim until they were within thirty feet of the police caravan, where he reactivated his voice modulator with a press at his jaw.

“Yo, piggies!” called Jason. “Brought you your latest Amber alert!”

The nearest cop spun around. Her eyes widened at the sight of Tim shadowed by the Red Hood, and she spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. A moment passed and soon Commissioner Gordon emerged from behind a nearby police car. He waved away the officer and jogged across the empty laneway.

Once Gordon came closer, Jason ushered Tim forwards with a gentle press to his back, but Tim was still reluctant to leave the relative safety of Red Hood’s company.

Gordon gave Jason a nod. “Thanks, son,” he murmured. He turned towards Tim. “Your father’s been worried sick.”

Jason snorted. “I bet. Figured I’d better return his little birdie before he panicked and tried to make the rescue himself.”

Gordon’s moustache twitched. “Let’s get you back to your dad, now,” he directed to Tim.

Tim nodded, and once Gordon turned to head back to the cavalcade Tim spun and threw his arms around Jason.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, cheek pressed into the Kevlar-weave of Jason’s chest.

Jason hesitated a moment before giving Tim a quick squeeze in return.

“Anytime, baby bird,” he grunted.

Tim let go and slipped back to Gordon’s side. Tim glanced back at Jason, and saw him throw a quick salute before he slunk back into the shadows.

Tim could hear the police scattered about murmuring after Jason’s departure, questioning the Red Hood’s presence, and that he’d helped rescue a Wayne kid at all, let alone accept a hug from one. Tim managed to dredge up a tiny bit of confusion through his brain fog; Hood’s weakness for troubled kids was pretty well documented, even if Tim hardly qualified.

Gordon accepted a shock blanket from another cop and laid it across Tim’s shoulders, before guiding him deeper into the police cavalcade. A familiar voice soon rose above the chatter, and Gordon gave Tim’s shoulder a quick squeeze when he stiffened. He pushed through the crowd, sensing Tim’s urgency. Tim almost had to jog to keep up with Gordon’s longer strides. They dodged around a police car, and Tim’s eyes watered immediately at the sight of Bruce wildly gesturing to a police officer doing his best to placate him.

Tim felt his lip quaver involuntarily and drew a shaky inhale. “Bruce,” he said, voice cracking.

Bruce spun at the sound of Tim’s voice, frenzied eyes overtaken with immediate relief.

“Tim!” Bruce called, frantic, and flew past the police between them.

Bruce pulled Tim into a crushing embrace, the shock blanket swept aside as Bruce hauled Tim in as close as he could.

“Sweetheart, you’re okay,” he breathed. His large hand cupped the back of Tim’s head, strong arms lifting Tim onto his toes.

Tim sniffed, nodding into Bruce’s chest, surrounded by the familiar scent of Alfred’s laundry detergent and Bruce’s expensive aftershave. Tim clutched at the back of Bruce’s jacket, crinkling the material beneath shaking fingers. Bruce pressed his lips to Tim’s temple, swaying slightly as he held him close.

Tim sunk into Bruce’s arms, and let the world fade around him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mean to post this earlier but, well, family emergencies strike when you least expect it, and I had to take more time to chill out than expected. I went to the aquarium, and got to see some fish! Very calming indeed. In any case, here you go, comfort aplenty! Thanks y’all for your patience, and enjoy.
> 
> This chapter contains some unintentional self-harm, and mentions of the threatened-slash-attempted non-con from the previous chapter.

Tim didn’t speak much on the ride home, instead staying pressed tight to Bruce’s side. Alfred had given him a hug when they made it back to the car, breaking a long streak of Tim reaching out first.

“My dear boy,” he’d murmured into Tim’s hair, holding him close with a strength that belied his deceptive frail-old-man exterior.

Bruce shuffled Tim into the car, buckling his seatbelt when Tim’s shaking hands failed to cooperate. Bruce tucked Tim under his arm, rubbing his shoulder with a strong hand, the warmth slowly permeating the frozen numbness of Tim’s body.

Tim knew they were concerned; they’d all been kidnapped at least once as both vigilantes and civilians, but Tim couldn’t recall the rest of his family reacting to it as severely as he was now. Even previous times Tim had coped admirably, moving on from the event as though it hadn’t happened. The embarrassment of overreacting burned, a flickering heat beneath the cloud of _nothing_ filling Tim’s brain.

Tim came back to himself piece by piece. He sensed when they arrived home, vaguely aware of being escorted into the Manor. He blinked, and he was in his room. Blinked again and he nodded when asked if he wanted to change out of his work suit into a pair of his more comfortable pyjamas. Tim knew Bruce had tugged one of Dick’s old college sweatshirts over his head, recognising the worn material and the hint of aftershave clinging to the collar, but couldn’t recall any of the steps in the progress of getting there.

After some time, Tim felt himself slot back into place. He was bundled up in a blanket on the sofa in the den, Bruce at the other end scrolling on a tablet.

Tim blinked slowly. He wiggled his fingers and toes, and this time they felt like his own, no longer alien limbs disconnected from his nervous system. Aside from the aches he’d picked up during his abduction, he was comfortable, the waves of heat radiating from the lit fireplace pleasantly warming his exposed skin. Tim could feel the softness of the blanket, and there was no hazy delay between his own thoughts and movements.

Bruce looked up when Tim shifted, and his eyes softened. “Hi, buddy,” he said.

“Hi Bruce,” mumbled Tim, pressing his face into the plush blanket.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, Tim watching the flames of the crackling fireplace.

Bruce moved eventually, clearing his throat as he put away the tablet. “The men who kidnapped you are in hospital under police supervision,” he said matter-of-factly. “Oracle and Red Hood followed their trail and traced them back to the man who’d organised it. Does the name Mason mean anything to you?”

Tim frowned. “Uh, no. Should it?”

“We had a meeting with him a month or so ago,” sighed Bruce. “He’s new money. Came into his father’s assets when he inherited the company after his death, and moved it to Gotham. He tried to start a partnership with WE but we looked into the company history and, well—” Bruce grimaced, “their profits are the result of criminally underpaying their workers, and there’s been no effort to change the company’s predatory hiring practices or even increase their minimum wage since Mason came into power. With that, I would have declined a partnership on the spot, but he hadn’t even looked into _renewables_ ,” said Bruce, incredulous.

Tim snorted.

Bruce gave him a wry grin. “In any case, Lucius declined politely enough, but Mason must have felt snubbed and decided to get back at me some other way.”

“By ransoming me,” said Tim quietly.

“Yes,” said Bruce. “He’d hidden his tracks well, but not well enough. He’d paid off a local business near where you were taken to remove their security cameras so the men he’d contracted could abduct you without notice. And then, after all that, he likely intended to pocket most of the ransom and give the cons who took you a cut of the money.”

“Yikes,” muttered Tim.

“Very.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer.

“Tim,” Bruce started. “They let me take you home immediately, but the police will need to interview you tomorrow about what you went through today. I know most of what happened from Barbara and Jason, but was there anything else they wouldn’t know about your kidnapping?” he asked.

“Oh.” Tim wrapped himself up tighter. “It was… normal.”

“Normal how?” asked Bruce gently.

The tiny part of Tim’s brain still processing emotions normally prickled at Bruce’s tone, but the rest of him was too tired to be annoyed at Bruce treating him like a victim.

“They grabbed me and brought me to a warehouse, and maybe hit me a few times,” said Tim with a dismissive shrug. “They threatened me, then there was the ransom call and they, uh,” Tim cleared his throat. “One of them, the leader dude, he choked me. That was when they threatened you. And then afterwards—”

Tim backtracked.

“—the rest of it was a blur, I guess. Then Jason showed up and brought me back.”

Bruce was stoic at the end of the couch. He’d grown more and more tense the more Tim recounted.

“And that was all?”

“That was all.”

Bruce watched Tim for a long moment. “Chum, I think we should talk about this,” he sighed. “Jason said you were much more shaken than usual, and I haven’t seen you dissociate like that in a long time.”

Tim shrugged, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Reminded me of some stuff, is all.”

“Stuff like what?” asked Bruce.

Tim shrugged again, keeping his gaze pinned to a patch of stubble on Bruce’s jaw. The churning in his gut had picked up again, reminding him why he’d zoned out in the first place.

“I dunno, things from a few years back. Before you knew me,” Tim said. He glanced up at Bruce, eyes flicking away from the indecipherable expression overtaking Bruce’s face.

The same dread from before pooled into Tim’s stomach, and he felt sweat break out on the back of his neck. The trembling Tim had managed to control overtook his hands once more, and he had to curl them into the blanket to make it less noticeable.

“It wasn’t like… I wasn’t hurt, or anything. It was just similar enough I freaked out, and it’s not like I could do anything to get out of there,” said Tim, letting frustration colour his voice. It was easier to be angry at his helplessness than it was to focus on the fear building up inside him.

Bruce turned on the couch to face Tim head-on. He lent forwards, hands clasped over his knees. “Have you been kidnapped before, Tim?” asked Bruce solemnly.

Tim curled up tighter. “Yeah. It was, um, it was the same people who took me,” he said, voice almost a whisper. He twisted the drawstring of Dick’s sweatshirt around and around his finger, tight enough to hurt.

Bruce inhaled sharply. “The same…? And before I knew you, you would have been…” He dragged a hand down his face, brows pinched in consternation. “Is that why you were so upset?”

Tim nodded. He’d pulled the drawstring to breaking point, the fibres stretched and elongated enough the knot threatened to unravel.

“God. Sweetheart, I can’t imagine…” Bruce stared off into the distance, eyes locked onto whatever horrors he was imagining for Tim. His gaze flickered back, and Tim shrunk away from the raw concern etched into the man’s features. “They must have returned you. Were your parents’ home? Did they pay the ransom?” Bruce asked.

Tim flinched. He desperately wished he could just _tell_ Bruce everything and get it out, but his mind was at war with his body and he couldn’t bring himself to speak; even the thought of attempting to get out the words made him want to throw up his lunch. Eventually, Tim managed to eke out a nod.

Bruce let out a gust of air. “If they’d paid the ransom, it should’ve been enough for the police to track the payment, but I never came across anything like that on file,” he said.

“S’cause they didn’t call the police,” Tim mumbled, the words grating as he forced them out. He burrowed further into the blanket.

Bruce stilled. “Why not,” he said, voice flat.

Tim’s words left his mouth in a faltering tumble. “They didn’t— they knew who organised it, so, there wasn’t really any point, or— I, I mean they didn’t want to bother with…” he trailed off.

“Didn’t bother— they _knew_ who organised your kidnapping?” asked Bruce, eyes flashing.

Tim froze. The fear from before poured in, the dread that hadn’t quite petered off swelling into an overwhelming cloud that set Tim’s senses screaming inside his head. Dimly, he noticed the drawstring had begun to cut circulation off to his finger, making it throb in tune with his rapidly escalating heartbeat.

Bruce shuffled over, leaning in close and unwrapping the digit and rubbing Tim’s hands with his own, pressing out the pins and needles.

“Tim, I need you to be honest with me here, son. Do _you_ know who organised your kidnapping?” asked Bruce, staring deep into Tim’s eyes.

Tim looked back, unable to bring himself to verbally respond. He felt his lip begin to quiver as he gave a tiny nod, barely more than a quick tilt of his head.

Bruce’s eyes pressed shut for a brief moment, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Can you tell me who?” Bruce asked. A simmering anger shone in his eyes, reflected alongside the glowing orange of the fireplace.

Tim let out a wet puff of laughter. “You don’t need to worry,” he croaked. “They’re— they’re gone now.”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed. He mouthed a question, and a long moment passed as Bruce processed Tim’s statement. As the turning cogs clicked into place and Bruce realised what Tim meant, undisguised shock overtook his face, and morphed into an expression of pure despair.

“You— your parents? Oh, my _baby_ ,” breathed Bruce.

Tim’s eyes burned. “I’m not—” he choked out, but before he could finish a sob burst from his chest. The pressure broke, like hundreds of thousands of gallons of water forced through a tiny crack that burst open into a shattered maw. The fear-shame-horror Tim had kept buried deep erupted from within him, a deluge Tim was helpless to stop. Tim was overwhelmed in an instant, fat tears cascading down his cheeks as his breath hitched hard enough to shake his form.

Tim crumpled forward, and Bruce was there to catch him. He tugged Tim into his lap, blanket and all, and clutched him firmly to his chest. Bruce carded his hands through the long tangled locks of Tim’s hair, cheek pressed to his temple.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I truly am,” murmured Bruce, turning to press a kiss to Tim’s crown.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut as he gasped into Bruce’s chest, his tears soaking into the black cashmere. He shuddered through a bout of hiccupping sobs, Bruce’s arms tightening around him. Tim grasped at Bruce’s sweater, fisting the material and hauling himself as close into Bruce’s embrace as he could.

Bruce held Tim close in turn, the tight circle of his arms almost painful. He murmured soft utterances into Tim’s hair, and without the threat of a life-or-death situation hanging over his head, Tim couldn’t avoid being swept back into a time he’d tried so hard to forget.

* * *

* * *

Tim was eleven. He’d been walking home from his Friday gymnastics class, excited for the weekend as it brought a chance to head out into Gotham for more photos of the Dynamic Duo. His parents were home, too, and though they had a flight out to Peru that evening, they’d promised that they’d all have dinner together before they left.

Tim knew they were still kind of upset from last week, when they found out he’d been sneaking into Gotham at night. His parents had come home early from their trip (for the first time in ages! Tim still couldn’t believe it), and had been waiting in his room when he tumbled in through the window at eleven o’clock. Mom had yelled so much, and Dad got so angry he smashed Tim’s phone, but Mom’d apologised and Dad bought Tim a new phone that he even got to choose himself.

Dad said they’d forget about it if he never went back out again, and made Tim promise he would stay home at night and only ever go out with his nanny. He felt kind of bad about breaking the promise so soon, but Mom and Dad weren’t even gonna be in the country, and his nanny always left at six o’clock, besides. They hadn’t even installed sensors on his window, Tim _checked_.

Tim decided to be extra careful the first few nights he went back out though, just in case.

He’d just turned a corner, and had almost made it to his bus stop when Tim noticed there was a car following him. He’d been practicing being vigilant, like Batman and Robin, but the slow crawl of the van behind him had escaped his notice. Tim started walking faster, hoping the driver was just a bit lost. The van sped up when he did, though, and when Tim realised there was no one on the street to help him, he got scared. Tim started to run, his bag bouncing against his back. He heard the van accelerating behind him, and his eyes began to blur with tears, but Tim couldn’t slow down because if he kept going just a little further he could make it to the bus and the driver could help him—

The next second Tim was pulled off his feet, a large arm catching him around his chest. The air left his lungs in a huge puff of air, leaving Tim breathless. He tried to struggle, thrashing around in the person’s grip, but he was still winded and his arms felt shaky and his breath had started to hitch with tears. They tossed Tim in the back of the van, and he landed on his elbow with a thump.

The door slammed shut behind him. Tim looked up hesitantly, and saw he was surrounded by a group of men all dressed in black. They were holding guns, and all Tim could see behind their masks was the cruel gleam of their eyes.

“You ready for a trip, kid?” asked one of the men, and Tim promptly burst into tears.

* * *

Tim was too scared to follow along with his kidnapper’s discussion. He didn’t know where they were taking him, didn’t even know if anyone knew he was gone, and his arm _hurt_. The men kept snickering at him as he tried to stop himself from sliding around on the floor of the lurching van; they hadn’t bothered to tie him up, and brandished their guns in his face when he’d skittered into the edge of a seat, forcing out more tears.

They snapped a photo of Tim, crumpled and crying, and the burst of the flash had yet to leave his retinas. One of the men kicked at the seat near Tim’s head and asked for his parents’ number, and Tim dutifully recited both with only a few hiccups.

They mostly ignored him after that.

* * *

It had been an hour or so after the kidnappers called both Tim’s parents’ cells for the first time and they hadn’t picked up. The men tried again fifteen minutes later, then again, and again. They got more frustrated as time went by, and Tim got more and more scared.

Mom and Dad were home, and should have been preparing for dinner, so Tim didn’t know why they weren’t _answering_. Tim tried to convince himself that they’d called the police, and that’s why they weren’t answering, but with each ring the fear grew deeper and deeper.

If Tim had been someone important, maybe Batman would have had an alert out, and could have searched for Tim when he didn’t show up on time. He could’ve hunted Tim down, and Robin could’ve taken out the men, and Tim would be home safe in no time.

There was no way Batman would even know he’d been taken, but Tim let himself hope.

* * *

It was late, when Mom and Dad finally answered. The call connected, and the man growled out his demands. Tim blanched at the numbers he recited, but stayed where he was pressed up against the edge of the seat. His parents would be _furious_ they had to pay that much because Tim got himself kidnapped.

When they hung up, the men jeered, laughing and mocking Tim and his parents. He scrunched his eyes shut and pressed his hands to his ears, trying desperately not to listen.

Eventually, they let off, and Tim knew his parents had paid the ransom when one of the men’s pocket dinged. He showed off his cell with a whoop, confirming a deposit to an account.

Tim started to tremble, and he didn’t know if it was caused by relief or a sinking sense of fear.

* * *

It was nine o’clock when they took him home. Tim was thrown out the side door of the van, falling and skinning his knees on the pavement of the driveway. The stinging in his knees mingled with the prickle of tears in his eyes, and Tim rose shakily, withholding a sob as best he could.

The van sped off, taking with it the glow of the headlights, so Tim had to shuffle carefully over to the gate’s keypad, scared his sneakers would catch a crack and he’d trip and fall again. Tears welled up in his eyes as he painstakingly entered his code, the dim lanterns lining the driveway bursting into starry coronas through the veil of water, making the keypad impossible to read.

The keypad buzzed, and Tim sniffled. He entered his code again, more tears building up behind his eyes like a dam filled to bursting. The keypad finally lit up green and the gate opened, and Tim stumbled towards it, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. He was halfway up when he noticed the entryway lights were dimmed, and a car was waiting out front. Had his parents called the police? Were they still there, keeping the lights off so they didn’t disturb the neighbours? Maybe the police were trying to be quiet and keep everyone calm. Were Mom and Dad waiting for him?

Tim broke into a run, tears suddenly gushing from his eyes and sobs bursting from his chest. He was so close, he was home, he’d been so scared and his parents would be so worried, he had to let them know he was _okay_.

Tim pulled his backpack off his shoulders, tears splashing over the material. He wiped his nose with his wrist as he dug out his keys with trembling hands. He nearly dropped them twice but he managed to yank open the door and tumble in.

“Dad? Mom? Mommy,” Tim cried, dropping his bag at the empty landing. Where were his parents? Maybe they were waiting with the police in one of the sitting rooms, and just couldn’t hear him.

Tim had to run further down the entry hall to find his parents. They were standing near the main staircase, bags piled up at their feet.

“Mommy,” Tim sobbed, running across the hall and throwing himself at his mom’s skirts. “Mommy, I was walking home and— and there were some bad men and they _took_ me and kept saying mean things and I didn’t know what to do,” he cried, trailing off into heaving sobs.

Mom let out a sigh. “Tim, please, I just had this dress pressed, I need you to let go for a moment,” she said, and pried off Tim’s hands.

Tim almost couldn’t let go, instinctively chasing the warmth of his mom’s hands. He knew he was too big to be picked up and held, Dad said so, but he still just wanted a _hug_. Tim’s heart thumped painfully in his chest and he struggled to breathe through his tears and clogged-up nose.

Mom crouched down before Tim, and dabbed at his cheeks with a handkerchief. “There we go, sweetie. Look, Tim, do you remember when we got really angry because you were going out into Gotham at night?”

Tim gave a wet sniff and nodded weakly.

“Well, what happened tonight is exactly why. If you’re not careful, and go out alone, bad people will snatch you right up and you’ll never get to come home again. Do you understand?” said Mom, lips pressed into a stern red line.

Tim did not understand. “Mommy?” he asked, voice quivering over a hiccup. “But— I was—”

“Honestly, Tim, what did you expect?” Dad cut in, dismissive. “We told you not to go back out, and look where it got you. You should have known better.”

Tim didn’t _understand_.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Tim, trying to rub the never-ending tears from his eyes. “Weren’t you worried about me?”

Dad grimaced, exchanging a look with Mom. “Of course we were, son, your mother and I were very scared. But Gotham is a dangerous city, y’see, and it’s important you keep your wits about you. We just want you to be safe.”

Tim still didn’t get it. Dad was saying he and Mom were scared, but his voice wasn’t matching up at all. They hadn’t even run to open the door when he got home, or come when Tim called.

Tim watched TV all the time, sometimes even the scary crime shows that only came on after dark, and the parents in those shows always cried so much when their kids were taken. They got angry, and upset, and when they got their kids back, they cried and cried and hugged their kids close and didn’t let go.

But Tim’s parents didn’t look upset. They just looked annoyed.

“Oh,” said Tim, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. “…Do you have to call the police and tell them I’m okay, now?”

Mom stared. “What?”

“But didn’t you call the police? I thought you were waiting for them,” said Tim, feeling smaller by the second.

“Why would we be waiting for the police?” said Dad incredulously.

Tim pointed back towards the door, stricken. “But there’s a car and—”

“Christ, Tim. Does that look like a police car to you? You’re a smart boy, you can figure it out,” said Dad.

Tim turned and looked back through the open door. It wasn’t a police car with its lights off. It was a taxi.

Mom rose with a sigh. “It’s getting a bit late for this, Tim,” she said, checking her watch. “You’re stubborn, just like your father, so we needed to make sure you know exactly how dangerous Gotham can be.”

Tim’s breath hitched.

“Mommy?” Tim asked, voice wavering. “What’s going on?”

“What have I said about asking questions, Tim,” said Mom sharply.

“But— but they said they called you, and you were so scared they’d n-never give me back so you had to give ‘em money so I could come home,” said Tim, voice shuddering. “I thought you were scared they weren’t gonna give me back, Mommy, I thought you were waiting,” he cried.

“Really, Tim, can you cut it with the mommy shit already? You’re not a baby,” barked Dad.

“Quiet, Jack,” snapped Mom. “Look, sweetie, now isn’t the time. We’ve got a really important job up in Peru, and they really need us there. It’s like your dad said, you’re a big boy now, okay? You’ll be fine without us. As long as you stay out of Gotham at night, you’ll be fine.”

Her nails dug into Tim’s shoulder.

“Right?” she asked, and her voice was sharp, sharper than one of the Batarangs Tim had found on a Gotham rooftop; the edges were blunted, but Tim had narrowly avoided cutting his hand. Tim knew if he said anything other than what Mom wanted she would get even angrier.

Tim nodded.

“Good boy.” She patted him on the head. “Now, let go of mom’s skirt, I need to look pretty for the flight. You take care now. Mrs Mac will be in tomorrow to clean and make you dinner.”

Tim hadn’t even noticed he’d reached out again until Mom was untangling his fingers from her skirt for a second time.

Dad stepped forward. “We’ve got to be a little tough on you to make sure you grow up into a strong young man, Tim. You’re already eleven, so it’s time you grew up a little. Just remember that next time you think you need to cry about something, alright?” he said, then clapped Tim’s shoulder briefly.

Mom and Dad then began to gather their suitcases.

“But I thought we were having dinner together tonight,” said Tim, voice quavering.

“Plans change, sweetie. There’s some leftovers in the fridge for you. We’ll be back in a month,” called Mom. She was already standing by the door, directing the taxi driver to pick up their luggage.

Tim clutched at his shirt. His lip trembled, and as Mom and Dad stepped through the door he desperately wanted to ask them to stay, but his voice shrivelled up in his throat.

The front door shut with a quiet click, and Tim could only stare through glassy eyes as the headlights faded away through the glass.

Tim turned away, and slowly inched his way to the staircase. Tears began to drip down his face as he climbed, turning his vision all wobbly and making him stumble. He wept more with each step, and by the time he made it to the second landing his eyes were so blurry Tim could hardly even tell which door was his.

Tim pushed open his bedroom door, and was met by a still, empty room. Tim faltered, then dashed over to his closet to retrieve the old teddy he’d hidden away when Dad said he’d grown too old for toys.

Tim clambered up onto his bed, kicking off his sneakers and burrowing beneath the covers. The blankets were cold and Tim shivered, pulling his teddy in closer against his chest. Hot tears slid down his cheeks and dampened his pillow, almost soothing his burning skin.

Tim was alone.

Maybe Tim was meant to be sent away. Maybe the kidnappers were meant to keep him, and his parents were annoyed ‘cause Tim wasn’t meant to come back at all. Maybe Tim’s parents weren’t scared for him because they’d _known_.

Tim curled up into the tightest ball he could, hands clutching his teddy tight up against his chest and knees almost pressed to his forehead, and bawled.

* * *

Tim cried so hard that his face was still red and splotchy when his nanny woke him up the next day, and he had such a bad headache she let him stay in bed and brought him bowls of ice cream instead of his usual meals.

She didn’t ask why Tim wasn’t wearing pyjamas, or why he was so upset and withdrawn; she just patted him on the head once then bustled around the house.

By the time Tim had to go back to school on Monday, he’d forced himself to forget, but there was a small part of him, buried down deep, deep inside, that had been forever and irreparably broken.

* * *

* * *

It was a long while before Tim stopped shaking.

His tears had petered off, leaving his eyes sore and puffy. The fire and blanket had left Tim overly warm and sweaty, his shirt sticking to his skin, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind; he still held Tim close, keeping him tucked under his chin.

Tim blinked away the last drops clinging to his eyelashes and sniffed, swiping at his damp cheeks. “God, that sucked,” he said, voice hoarse.

Bruce let out a tiny puff of laughter. He rocked Tim back and forth gently for a moment before he gave him a final squeeze and leant back. Tim’s cheeks pinked when he realised he was still cradled in Bruce’s lap.

“ _Before_ you say something about not being a kid any more, or being too old for this,” said Bruce, “Dick does this all the time. Just let me have this for a moment.”

“Dick doesn’t count,” grumbled Tim, but remained settled in Bruce’s lap regardless.

Bruce continued to rub Tim’s shoulder, and the pressure sent warm prickles arching across Tim’s skin. He sighed, leaning into the contact like a cat soaking up a sunbeam.

“Tim, before I ask you what happened, there’s something I want to say,” said Bruce lowly, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating in Tim’s bones.

“’Kay,” Tim hummed, still relaxing into Bruce’s grip.

“What your parents did to you was a horrible, monstrous thing and— Tim, let me finish,” said Bruce, quelling Tim with a look, “—not something a child should ever have to experience.”

Bruce shuffled Tim, gently clasping the back of his neck. He ran his thumb back and forth through the fine baby hairs at the base of Tim’s hairline.

“I know you loved your parents very much, and I know it isn’t easy for you to hear me speaking about them like this, but that doesn’t change the fact that what they did to you was unforgivable,” said Bruce quietly. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like living with your parents after such a massive breach of trust, knowing that they were the ones who arranged for you to be kidnapped.”

Before Tim could respond, a loud clatter followed by a smash came from the door to the den.

Tim and Bruce spun in unison to face the doorway to see Jason clutching an empty tray, ceramic and glass shattered at his feet.

“Your _parents_ got you kidnapped?” gasped Jason, raw horror stark on his face.

“Um,” started Tim, unsure of how to continue.

Jason blinked, glancing down, and cursed when he noticed the mess on the floor. He looked around abashedly, scratching at his head.

Just as Jason made to bend down to collect the fragments, Alfred materialised behind his shoulder with a broom and dustpan. He waved away Jason’s apology and offer to help, ushering him into the den instead.

“I should think your brother deserves your attention more than a broken glass or two, Master Jason,” said Alfred, looking over to offer Tim a wan smile.

“I— yeah, sorry Alfie,” muttered Jason.

“Nonsense, dear boy. Off you go,” said Alfred, giving Jason’s shoulder a pat.

Jason slunk into the room with a grimace, stopping in front of Tim and Bruce on the sofa. He’d changed out of the Red Hood suit into a ratty old tee and a pair of sweatpants he’d stolen from Bruce, if their slightly too-short length was anything to go by.

He gave a gusty sigh as he dropped onto the couch next to Bruce and narrowly avoided crushing Tim’s ankles beneath his not-inconsiderable weight.

Tim kicked out at Jason in retaliation, getting in one good hit before Jason caught his foot and held it still. He drummed his fingers on the arm rest, then cleared his throat.

“You really weren’t joking around, were you kid,” said Jason quietly.

Tim gave Jason a look.

Jason chuckled sheepishly. “Yeah, okay, ignore that. Guess I’m strugglin’ to wrap my head around the fact they really did that to you. I mean, _God_. You woulda been—what, a little kid? And they just let a bunch of criminals take you away? I just… holy shit, Timmers,” said Jason, his voice strained. “How old were you?”

Tim fiddled with the sweater’s drawstring again. “I dunno, like eleven or something,” he said.

“That’s messed up.”

Tim gave a half shrug and dropped his head back onto Bruce’s shoulder. He wasn’t really in the mood for discussion.

Jason kept quiet, and a long moment passed as he rubbed the bony knob of Tim’s ankle with his thumb.

Jason then eyed Tim, and hauled him out of Bruce’s lap into a crushing hug, his chin digging hard into Tim’s shoulder. Tim let out an involuntary squeak.

“I was freakin’ worried about you, kid,” said Jason, words muffled by fabric. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Jason wasn’t the cuddliest man on the planet, and rarely reached out first—Tim was left blindsided for a moment, but he quickly burrowed deeper into the hug. The smell of leather and gunmetal still clung to Jason’s shirt, and when it would have once set Tim on edge, it now calmed him, as familiar as Dick’s aftershave or Cass’ shampoo. Tim’s knee was likely digging into Jason’s hip awkwardly, but he didn’t seem bothered; Tim figured Jason needed another moment to reassure himself that Tim was in fact out of harm’s way.

Jason gave him another squeeze, tight enough Tim swore he could hear his bones creak, then pushed Tim back to ruffle his hair vigorously.

“Quit it,” Tim grumbled, even as he leant into the contact. Jason let out a self-satisfied smirk, giving Tim a final hair ruffle before he let off.

Tim settled back onto the couch, and Bruce tugged him back into his side, a heavy arm keeping Tim grounded in place. Tim was boxed in between Bruce on his right and Jason on his left, but rather than making him feel trapped, Tim was calmer than he had been all evening.

Tim blinked slowly. Bruce and Jason’s company coupled with the heat of the fire was making him drowsier by the minute. The cumulative exhaustion seemed to hit Tim all at once, and he began to nod off. The memories from when he was younger still assaulted his mind the second he closed his eyes, but it was less of a gut punch and more of a gentle knock to the shoulder; rather than sending Tim spiralling off-kilter, he could somewhat ignore it.

“—Tim?”

Tim must have slipped into a microsleep or two, because the sound of his name brought Tim back to himself with a jolt. “What?”

Bruce looked down at him with concern, and brushed a sweaty bang behind Tim’s ear. He flushed, leading Bruce to press the back of his hand to Tim’s forehead.

“I’m fine,” Tim mumbled. He let the weight of his head fall into the touch, a part of him mourning the loss of contact when Bruce pulled his hand back.

It embarrassed Tim, Bruce treating him like a much younger kid at times, and his own reaction to it, but Tim could admit to himself privately that sometimes it was nice to let Bruce smother him in a way his parents had been too busy to bother with.

Jason hadn’t moved, and he watched the exchange with a newfound tenderness, one Tim still wasn’t used to being directed his way.

“Does he have a fever?” asked Jason.

“Hn. No. Do we need to turn down the fire?”

“It’s fine,” Tim said, exasperated.

Bruce gave Tim an amused look. “Forgive me if I need a little more than that in this family,” he said. His expression sobered. “Though if you’re feeling alright, there is one more thing I wanted to discuss.”

Tim’s suspicion notched up a degree or two. “Go ahead.”

“Jason’s report from when he found you was… concerning, to say the least. And you were considerably shaken when I got you back. Some of that is clearly due to what happened when you were young, but I don’t think that’s all.”

“I already told you what happened,” said Tim shortly.

Bruce exchanged a glance with Jason over Tim’s head, ratcheting up Tim’s annoyance. Did they not think he could see them _scheming_?

Bruce cleared his throat, and brought his hand back up to Tim’s shoulder, resuming rubbing circles into his skin. “Your own report was fairly sparse, Tim. You’ve been trembling on and off since I got you back—”

Tim buried his hands in the blanket still tangled at his waist.

“—and you’ve been zoning out a lot, not to mention your dissociation earlier. I’m worried something happened to you that you’re not telling me.”

Jason’s gaze tightened at that, and Tim’s frustration boiled over.

“Look, what happened, _happened_ , okay? Those guys roughed me up a bit and I freaked out because they were the same guys from last time. That’s _all_. Can we move on?” said Tim as he glowered and crossed his arms.

Jason slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he eyed Tim. “Deflect all you want, kid, but we still need to talk about what happened back there,” said Jason wearily.

The air in the room went thick with tension.

“Um, no, let’s not. I cried it out, it’s fine, let’s just forget about it,” said Tim, his anger rapidly dwindling.

Bruce gave Tim’s shoulder a squeeze. “Tim,” he said slowly. “What is Jason talking about.”

Nausea bubbled up through Tim’s throat. Intellectually, he knew that Bruce was going down the checklist of what he needed to know before Tim gave his statement the next day, but that didn’t stop the rising fear and the spike of Tim’s heartbeat. Trying to verbalise the events of earlier that evening made Tim want to curl up into a ball and forget he existed for a while.

Jason visibly swallowed. “Do we— do you need to go to Leslie’s cl—”

The _clinic_ ? Tim reeled back in horror. “I— _no_. I told you, they _didn’t do anything_.”

Bruce jumped in, alarmed. “Honey, did those men hurt you?”

Tim groaned, and buried his face in his hands. This whole day was giving him emotional whiplash.

“No, nothing _happened_. They just said they were going to, y’know,” Tim said, making a crude gesture with his hand. “Then Jason showed up. And s’not like it’s anything new in this business,” he mumbled.

“One of ‘em had his belt undone,” added Jason helpfully. “I broke his dick.”

Tim threw a glare in his direction.

“So they threatened to assault you,” said Bruce, voice stilted as though he was barely restraining himself from growling. His hand had tightened almost painfully on Tim’s shoulder through the entire exchange, and the pressure slowly abated, as if Bruce was forcing himself to consciously ease up for Tim’s comfort.

Tim shrugged, and drew his knees up to his chest. “I mean, yeah, I guess. But it isn’t like— you know how this goes. Robin’s been threatened before, plenty of times, and they didn’t say anything when I was younger but I knew it was a possibility. They hardly even touched me. I don’t— I shouldn’t be freaking out, s’just _words_.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s alright, sweetheart,” said Bruce quietly, slowly rubbing Tim’s back.

“I was _fine_ ,” stressed Tim. “I went through worse as Robin, and even when _Jason_ attacked me it was worse, but—” Tim’s voice cracked. “I don’t know why I’m overreacting,” he said morosely.

“You aren’t overreacting,” said Bruce gently. “Tim, what you went through today was incredibly traumatic, and awoke another deep-set trauma you’ve been unable to address until now. That isn’t something that’s easy to work through. You were then assaulted, and _threatened_ with further assault. And your brain doesn’t necessarily differentiate between the two.”

Tim curled up, digging his chin into his arms folded atop his knees, a despondent moue across his face. Intellectually, he knew that Bruce was right, but it was one thing to understand that and another thing entirely to accept that it was true for himself. Tim still didn’t _feel_ like he deserved to be messed up by it all, not when he wasn’t hurt like the civilian rape victims they helped on the streets.

…But that didn’t mean Bruce’s words didn’t help.

Tim spoke, his words muffled through the bunched-up sleeves of the sweatshirt. “Why’re you being so smart about this.”

“Hn. I’ve had practice,” said Bruce, leaning over to drop a light kiss into Tim’s hair.

Jason took the moment of silence that followed to knock his shoulder into Tim’s. “He’s right, you know.”

Tim let out a short hum in response.

“And just ‘cause I gave the guy an eggplant deformity—”

Tim recoiled. “ _Gross_.”

“—doesn’t mean you have to immediately be _over it_ . Even if they didn’t physically touch you, it’s still not something you should ever have to endure, baby bird,” said Jason. “You were just a kid, and you’re still just a kid _now_. No one’s magically adept at coping with sexual assault, not even adults.”

“It’s not—” Tim paused, almost feeling the physical weight of Jason’s gaze. “I guess,” he said, conceding mulishly.

Jason prodded at Tim. “Think about it like this: you were eleven, yeah? That’s the same age as Damian. Imagine if all this happened to him now. Like Bruce—sorry, B—arranging for him to be kidnapped, and him going through the same shit you did today. What would you do?” asked Jason.

Tim’s heart skipped several beats. “I…”

Tim found himself tugging on the sweatshirt drawstring again, his fingers twisted in the strings pulsing in time with the thumping of his heart. The collar pulled taut, and pressed painfully against the bruises on his neck. Bruce unwound Tim’s hands, keeping them clasped in his grip. Bruce squeezed gently, his giant hand dwarfing both of Tim’s.

“You with me, buddy?” Bruce asked gently.

Tim nodded, and pushed his head into Jason’s shoulder when he felt the familiar burn of tears in his eyes.

“Okay,” said Jason slowly. “You see why we’re so angry for you, then?” he gave Tim’s hair a light tussle.

Tim sniffed. “Yeah,” he croaked, rubbing his damp eyes on Jason’s sleeve.

“Wow, okay, use me like a tissue, why don’t you. Goddamn,” grumbled Jason, even as he snaked an arm around Tim’s back to give him a one-armed hug.

Tim let out a puff of laughter, nestling into the warmth of his brother’s side.

“You sound like you swallowed a self-help book. Since when did you get so good at this?”

“Since I decided I was sick of us all repressing the horrible shit that we go through and figured someone other than Dick had to be the family therapist for once, Timbers,” said Jason gruffly.

“You got a shitty bedside manner, though.”

“Shut up,” said Jason, giving Tim a shake.

Tim snickered. He glanced up at Bruce, and saw a fond smile directed towards him and Jason. Tim gave a tiny smile of his own in response, and watched Bruce’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he gave Tim’s hands a squeeze.

“And hey, baby bird, before I forget,” said Jason, drawing back Tim’s attention, “I dealt with those creeps for you today, and I’ll deal with any more that show up. You just let me know and I’ll handle it.”

Bruce grunted.

“ _Non-lethally_. You know I haven’t killed anyone in months.”

“Chum, at this point I’m far from arguing.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and Dickiebird have put enough goons in hospital on feeding tubes that you have no room to talk.”

Tim tuned out Bruce’s deadpan response and Jason’s snarky reply back, relishing the warmth of Bruce’s hand enveloping his and Jason’s arm holding him close. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, feeling safe, protected, and _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap. Thanks for sticking it out ♥
> 
> You can find me here on [twitter](https://twitter.com/applejee_) or on [tumblr](https://applejee.tumblr.com).


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